


The Living Dead, Who Reside In 221B Baker Street

by afteriwake



Series: Brought About By The Behind The Scenes Machinations Of One Mr. Mycroft Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Molly, Awesome Molly, F/M, Fake Character Death, Mycroft's Meddling, POV Sherlock Holmes, Poor Molly, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Rumors, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has A Crush, Sherlock Has a Plan, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock-centric, Sneaky Sherlock, Victorian, surprised Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is being forced by Mycroft to find a wife, so he avoids this chore by pretending to be dead when potential wives come calling. He’s attempting it for the ninth time when he gets an unexpected visitor instead: Hooper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Living Dead, Who Reside In 221B Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a (very belated) cheer-up fic on a day of a lot of wank for **ladycraft2121** , who asked for a fic inspired by this quote from ACD canon: “ _Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her._ ” I used a modified version of the quote in the fic, and based the idea of the story around the quote. I do hope you enjoy, m'dear!

He did not want to marry. It was at the insistence of his brother that he do so, the behemoth that Mycroft was being incapable of continuing the Holmes name himself. And so he had decided upon a clever ruse. He had put an advertisement in the Strand, looking for a potential mate in the personals section, and when they came to call he would pretend to be dead in the sitting room to see how they reacted. Yes, he was aware it was most irregular, he had told Watson, but then again, he did not _want_ a wife. He was playing Mycroft’s game his own way and when he told Mycroft that there was no suitable woman in the whole of London who did not run off into the street screaming at the thought of marrying him, eventually his brother would be resigned and allow him to keep his bachelorhood.

So far, he had been successful eight times. It was, he was fairly sure, one of his best plans to date if he did say so himself.

He was preparing himself to scare off his ninth potential mate today. He had decided it would be best if today it appeared that he had died in his sleep and his corpse had been left a bit to putrescence in the sitting room. He had carefully mixed just the right sort of chemicals to give off the stench of a just recently decaying body in the unusual summer heat, and he applied some stage makeup to his face to appear bloated as well. He settled into his favourite chair and got comfortable and had just settled in when the door was thrown open and Hooper stalked in. “Holmes!” she snapped.

“Hooper,” he said. It took him a moment, but he realized she was in feminine garb, which was most unusual. The yellow day dress suited her quite nicely, and would have set off the nice complexion in her cheeks if her expression wasn’t darkened and there wasn’t a murderous expression in her eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at an inopportune time.”

“I’ve been sacked!” she said.

He sat upright, his ruse forgotten. “What?” he asked, tilting his head in confusion.

“The board at Barts found out I was not a male and was, indeed, a woman and they’ve sacked me,” she said, beginning to pace in front of him. “Furthermore, they’ve sullied my name at every hospital in London. I’m ruined. No one will take me. I’ll...I’ll have to cross the Atlantic and go to work there. Or worse, I’ll have to become a _housewife_ now.” She said the term with disgust. “This is horrible, absolutely horrible.”

He felt his gut seize with cold fire at the thought of Hooper leaving London. Since he had found out the truth about her he had guarded it well, taking great pains to help her keep her true sex hidden from anyone who would try to pry. Despite their often heated arguments in the morgue he had great respect for her skills as a pathologist and, what was more, great respect for her as a person. He did not want her to be thousands of miles away from him.

 _But that is not the only reason you do not want her to be away_ the small voice in the back of his head said, the one he often had to squash after the private moments he shared with Hooper when her incompetent assistant was sent away, where they would discuss cases in more detail and, at times, the discussion would turn to personal matters. He had learned many things about her and he would admit that he _liked_ her as a person. She was...dear...to him, he supposed.

He would miss her if she was gone.

“I will help you regain your position at Barts,” he said, standing up.

She looked up at him, and only then did it register how he looked. “Looking like a member of the recently deceased?” she asked quizzically.

“Oh, this,” he replied, clawing at his face to remove the prosthetic pieces he had used to appear bloated and then realizing he had stage makeup under his fingers. “My brother is demanding I marry, to carry on the Holmes name. I do not wish to do so, so I have been posing as a corpse when women come to call. Most run screaming back into the street. Some have fainted. None ever return again.”

She nodded. “So that explains the rumours of the living dead who reside at 221B Baker Street,” she said.

He made a face. “There are rumours? John will have my hide for this. More work for him to handle in maintaining my image, I suppose.”

“I don’t know,” she said, a small smile begrudgingly placing itself on her face. “I think it’s fascinating. Tell me, how many potential wives have you scared off?”

“Eight,” he said, quite proud of himself. “You were the first not to be scared.” Then his eyes widened as he realized the implication of his words. “Not to say you were to be a future wife. That was not my intent at all.”

“No, I understand,” she said, looking down. “You do not see me that way. I am simply Hooper, your resident pathologist. I am not Margaret to you.”

He paused, unsure of this conversation. To be quite honest, she was more than Hooper to him, but he had not really verbalized it. He had not quite allowed her to be Margaret to him, either, not yet. But perhaps now he could. He moved to the settee where she had seated herself and sat next to her. “After I make myself presentable, Margaret, perhaps we could take a walk at Hyde Park and talk about what we should do to get you reinstated to your old position. And this time, without you having to put on the facade as Hooper. Would that be an adequate way to spend your afternoon?”

She looked over at him, her eyes wide, and then a wide smile formed on her face as she nodded. “I would like that very much...Sherlock,” she said.

He gave her a small smile back and then stood again, leaving the room momentarily to clean himself up and make himself presentable. Perhaps this was a good change in things, he thought to himself. If indeed it did get to the point that they did marry, perhaps he had found a woman that he could inspire with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when his corpse was lying within a few yards of her. That might be a triumph all within its own right.


End file.
